Suzie rapped on the door before she let herself in. “Hiya. Those elevators get worse, you could wait a year for one to come.”
The two women embraced.
“You really want coffee?” asked Angie.
“Nah.” She smiled, draping her purse over the back of the chair and taking a seat. “I just want to know you’re okay.”
Angie nodded, pulled her chair out and sat to one side so she wasn’t behind the desk, but next to her friend. “I think I’m getting to okay. Let’s say I can at least see where okay is.”
“That’s a big improvement on when you were in my office.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I’m not going to ask you if you’ve made a decision. I—”
“I have.”
Suzie read her face. The nervous smile said she was going to be a mom. “You sure?”
Her eyes lit up. “Yeah. It’s taking some getting used to, but I’m sure. It feels right.”
“How right?”
“It’s hard to say.” She took a breath and then tried to describe her feelings. “It’s like there’s a river of decision flowing within me and the tide and force is in the direction of keeping the baby and seeing it all through.”
Suzie frowned a little. “That’s called being swept along by events.”
“I know.” She smiled wider now. “I studied psychology, remember?”
Suzie put up an apologetic hand.
“It’s more than momentum. Going against the flow feels increasingly the wrong thing to do.”
Suzie allowed herself to relax a little. She’d guessed the wrong way. Had expected her friend to be set on termination. “And Jake? How did that go?”
She rolled her eyes. “Badly.”
“He’s still a long way from okay?”
“Uh-huh. A whole world away. He doesn’t want me to have it.”
“I’m sorry. You think he’ll come round?”
“I’m hoping.”
“And if not?”
“Then I choose the baby. No question about it.”
Suzie pulled her purse off the chair. “Then I can stop worrying about you.” She got to her feet. “Come see me tomorrow and we’ll talk about health care and the little matter of telling your boss. If you make it for twelve, I’ll buy you lunch.”
“You’ve got a deal.” She walked her to the door. “Thanks for coming by.”
“You’re welcome. I look forward to seeing you and your instinctive river tomorrow.”
11
SKU Offices, LA
It was the kind of call Jake knew he shouldn’t make.
But he made it anyway.
He had a buddy who worked in Army Intelligence, a good friend who came from his old neighborhood. They’d played on the same football team. Fought in the same regiment. Even dated some of the same women.
“Lamotta.” The one-word answer came from an African American with a right fist like a sledgehammer and the heart of a teenage girl.
“Joe, it’s Jake Mottram. How you doing, man?”
Lamotta laughed like he’d slurped helium gas. “I’m doing gooooood, man.” He checked a calendar on his wall. “Far as I see, there ain’t no anniversaries coming up, so I’m figuring you’ve got bad news or you’re after something.”
“Man, you Intelligence guys are so smart.”
“Which is it, Jake? I got to go find my funeral duds again?”
“No, no one died, Joe. It’s a favor that I need.”
“A favor? You think you still got favors in the bank? After how fucked up you left me at that party in New York? Brother, it was like a scene from The Hangover.”
“Can you ring me back?”
“Fuck.” The comment had taken the wind out of Lamotta’s sails. It meant there was bad news coming and Jake wanted to share it on a nontraceable line, a pay-as-you-go burner that all Special Services guys kept if they needed to call each other. “Yeah, I can do that. Give me five. I need some fresh air.”
“You got it.” He dropped his desk phone and took out his own untraceable phone.
Couple of minutes later he was still looking at it when it buzzed. “Hi.”
“Hi, yourself. It’s a beautiful day here in Washington; tell me you ain’t gonna ruin it.”
“I can’t promise.”
“Sh-it.”
“So here it is. I took down a Spree by the name of Corrie Chandler, ex–Tenth Mountain.”
“Saw it on the news.”
“What you didn’t see is this morning I visited him in lockup and he told me a tale to chill your blood.”
“Which was?”
“He and his superior officer illegally executed some insurgents during Operation Enduring Freedom.”
“Oh fuck.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Don’t do this, man. Really. If you lift the rocks off anything to do with that campaign, then all hell’s creatures are bound to come crawling out.”
“I have to, Joe. Can you have a sneak around for me?”
“No.”
“Chandler said the shit went down in Nuristan province.”
“I said no.”
“Emotions were high, a lot of their buddies had been killed and injured—”
“Jake, no! If this happened—and note that I said if—then it went down more than a decade ago. What the fuck’s he doing bringing this up now?”
“Chandler killed his wife and a neighbor. Now he’s banged up with nothing to lose, so I figure he wants to confess all his sins and find some absolution.”
Lamotta laughed. “Then it’s bull. He wants to snag an insanity plea. He’s using you, man.”
“I don’t think so. I’m pretty certain the war fucked him up, Joe. There’s no denying it does that, right?”
Lamotta blew out an exasperated sigh. The day had been going so well. His daughter had a sleepover tonight, he’d planned to finish early and take her to her friend’s, and then he and his wife were heading for an evening of serious loving. “Have you taken this upstairs?”
Jake looked at the half-finished report on his desk. “Only verbally. I haven’t put in the paperwork.”
“Then don’t. I’m guessing your boss will want to park a tank over it. I can be that tank, man. Say you ran some checks with a buddy and got zip.”
“And Chandler? What do I do about a guy who might have lived a different life if he hadn’t got screwed up in some godforsaken part of Afghanistan?”
There was a long, dry silence.
Jake broke it. “I just want to know if there’s any truth in it, Joe. You don’t need to go on record, don’t need to do anything about exposing it. I just need to know.”
The silence lasted even longer this time.
It was Lamotta’s turn to break it. “You’re gonna owe me, man. Owe me forever. I’ll see what I can do.”
12
California
The piece of paper in Shooter’s hand had been thrown away. Discarded by someone he’d never met.
It had been mailed to that person’s house, they’d read it, made a note about it and then tossed it.
The entire floor of the room he was standing in was covered in trash that people had jettisoned. Snippets of their lives. Clippings of their hair and nails. Tissues kissed with lipstick. Cotton pads, daubed with makeup and cleansers.
It wasn’t all in one big mound. He had organized it into distinct piles and labeled each one.
Shooter had been collecting trash for a long time. He called it his “life collage.” There was something fascinating about how close he could get to people through what they no longer wanted. He could work out their diets, their medical problems and their love lives. Most interesting of all, he could even work out when they were going to die.
Shooter folded the piece of paper and put it in the back pocket of his pants. It made him feel connected to the fool who’d thrown it away. Linked by his secret knowledge.
He used a tissue to pick up another note.
/> One he’d written for the police. Something to get their juices flowing.
He checked monitors, set alarms and slipped out of the shadowy safety of his sanctuary into the blazing sunlight.
Temperatures were pushing ninety. Everyone on the street was dressed casual and wearing fake designer shades. He checked the brands bobbing by. Oakley, Ray-Ban, Prada, Polaroid and his favorite—Police. He passed the journey thinking about the people behind the lenses and what might be on their minds.
Some had their earbuds in, blaring music, others looked brain-dead. Stoned. Hungover. Just stupid. None seemed anything special.
Unlike him.
He doubted they had secrets that stretched beyond stealing candy as a kid or fucking someone they shouldn’t have.
They were the “unfamous.”
People who would pass through life without leaving their mark. They were bit-part actors on his stage, fit for screaming and freaking out, but nothing else.
Shooter rode the escalator from the sidewalk to the first level of the mall. It was good to be out of the heat. He put his hand in the black canvas sports bag slung over his shoulder and felt the cool metal lying in there.
The escalator evened out.
He stepped off and felt like he had when he’d been settled in the woods and watched the kids and teachers in the strawberry fields.
Things were coming together.
Impetus was building.
He paused in front of a store window and took a breath to compose himself. He had learned from yesterday. Don’t rush. Don’t make mistakes. Not out here in the open, in the midst of the crowd.
Shooter adjusted a white Lakers cap over his fuzz of tight, black hair. It had to be perfectly straight.
Dead straight.
Just below the purple writing and curve of the yellow basketball logo, he’d painstakingly fitted a pair of miniature 3-D lenses. They were linked to a digital recorder resting next to the gun in the bag.
Slowly, he stepped away from his reflection. Walked the final fifty yards to the kill zone. Time speeded up. Nerves kicked in. Frames of focus dropped as his heartbeat quickened.
He slowed his breathing again. Told himself that in a moment he would feel better. All that welled-up pain and rage would be gone. Purged. Leeched away in a healing splash of blood.
He halted outside Bloomingdale’s, dipped his hand in the sports bag and slipped off the safety.
Twenty yards to go.
The shiny, reflective glass of the swanky store window mirrored a thin, nondescript black kid in aviator shades.
A kid about to become the most talked-about person on the planet.
Not that you’d think it to look at him.
He’d dressed down in white, unlaced sneakers, low-hanging baggy black shorts, that tricksy white Lakers cap and a white Nike T, with its big iconic tick symbolizing their “Just Do It” attitude.
Cool.
And the coolness grew with every step.
Beats of heavy music struck up in his brain. A steady bass boomed. Kept rhythm with his pulse. Inside the sports bag, he fingered the curled trigger of the MAC-10. Stroked it gently. Feathered it.
No need to lift it out. No point drawing attention to himself unnecessarily early. Mr. MAC was nocturnal, worked best in the dark.
His left hand dug into his pocket and found a Kleenex. Inside it, the fingerprint-free note that he planned to leave.
One word that told them why. It’d drive them crazy.
Up ahead was a sign: JUDY-JU’S GLASSES. He checked his watch.
It was time.
Chicken time. No-going-back time. Killing time.
13
FBI Field Office, LA
The door was open, so Jake stuck his head through the crack.
Angie was sitting at her desk, her long hair dangling like curtains, covering whatever paperwork she was bent over.
He missed feeling the brush of her locks on his face when she lay on top of him, when she teased him or when she rested there, all her energy spent and her face flushed from lovemaking. He missed the way she enchanted him with her soft brown eyes, made him feel like no other woman had ever done.
He just plain missed her.
“Hi.” He stepped inside, his heart over-revving. “I got your message.”
She looked up from the victim statements. Pulled herself from a world of hurt. “Hi, I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Hope not. All my ninja training would’ve been wasted.”
She smiled. “I’m sorry I had to cancel.”
“Don’t worry, I understand. How’d it go?” He perched on the edge of her desk.
She had to lean back to look up at him. “Struck out. They’re back at square one.”
“You’ll get your guy—you always do.”
“Do I?”
He could tell she was tired. “You look stressed. Is that because of me or the case?”
“Bit of both. I didn’t sleep well last night.” She gave him an intimate look. “Maybe I missed you being there.”
“I certainly missed being there.” He bent closer. Felt energy spark between them. “You think we can wind back the clock? Maybe have that big conversation all over again, minus the shock?”
“Yeah, we can do that,” she teased him. “But not now. Not until after.”
“After?” He played dumb.
She gave him no answer. Just a look that hit his heart like a shot of adrenaline.
Jake put his hand to her face and kissed her. Light and gentle, but enough to cause an explosion.
She pressed her lips hard to his. Let him know of her need. Matched his want with her own. No one had ever made her feel like Jake did. No one ever would.
They broke.
Both looked emotional. Aroused yet almost tearful. If they’d been alone at home, they’d have been naked by now, shutting off their brains and leaving their bodies to find the common ground and peace they so desperately craved.
The clock over Angie’s door said it was just after five. “You know, I could just grab a whole load of stuff off my desk and we could get outta here.”
“What about your work?”
She started packing. “I’ll deal with it later.”
His eyes lifted. “Later? Is that before or after?”
“Oh, after. Long after.”
14
Sun Western Mall, LA
Shooter turned into Judy-Ju’s.
He saw fifteen, maybe twenty people spread across the open-plan floor. Mainly couples. All browsing. Trying on designer frames. Posing in front of angled mirrors. Wondering if glasses could really be worth more than two hundred bucks.
He wanted twelve bodies. Just twelve. No more. No less.
A dozen dead.
An old black woman came into view. She was speaking too loud at the counter.
Shooter watched. The store girl raised her voice. The senior fumbled at a hearing aid. “I’m sorry, honey, I wasn’t switched on.”
“Take a seat,” said the girl. “The optometrist will see you in a moment.”
Shooter’s heart cramped. He stepped forward. The old woman saw him. Looked at him with her head tilted inquisitively. Her face asked what he wanted, why he was staring at her.
He watched her eyes as he squeezed the trigger of the hidden gun.
The MAC kicked harder than he’d expected.
Bullets spluttered from the sports bag. Blood and brain spattered the wall behind the woman’s head. It covered the ceiling, the mirrors and displays of glasses. She still seemed to be staring at him. Blood sprayed like he’d punctured a hosepipe and she was falling from the chair, eyes still open.
The “unfamous” were slow to pick up their cues. They only screamed when she hit the floor, when the side of her skull cracked against the polished floor tiles.
Something detonated inside Shooter. An emotional bomb blast. A nuclear surge of euphoria and power.
He squeezed and sprayed.
This was infi
nitely more thrilling than yesterday. The closeness to the bodies added an extra frisson. The gun was somehow alive in his hands, like a powerful squirming snake spitting death. Men, women, children, black, white, old and young all fell victim to its venom.
Bodies on bodies.
Living and dead heaped together, a stack of human Jenga.
It was hard to count.
Difficult to be sure.
Twelve dead. No more, no less. It had to be twelve.
He checked them off in his head. Counted like it was a nursery rhyme.
One dead. Two dead. Three dead. Four.
Five dead. Six dead. Seven dead. More.
He sank bullets into their bodies to make sure there was no mistake, no repeat of the disappointment with the baldy teacher in the strawberry fields.
He sank the rounds deep. Like seeds. Lead flowers to grow in their backs and chests.
Bouquets for their graves.
Eight dead. Nine dead.
The screaming was different now. Soft moaning from the corners of the store. As though he were underwater and it was all happening up above him.
Ten dead.
He walked in their blood and checked again.
Ten.
His sneakers daubed a fresco of red swirls and prints on the cream floor. He turned his head left to right so the Laker cams got a good shot of it all. Added a flourish with his foot.
A white kid, half his age, dashed for the exit.
A three-round burst cut him down. Shattered the boy’s knees. Opened his stomach. Split his head.
Eleven.
One more. He needed only one more.
People were screaming louder, some crying, sobbing as he moved among them swinging his shoulder bag, his bag of death. Most had scurried to the corners of the store. Frightened mice, frantic for a hole to squeeze through.
He wanted to kill them all. The urge was there to wipe them all out. Exterminate them.
But that would make him as insignificant as the red-misters, the heat-of-the-momenters, the ones who killed without reason.
He wasn’t like them. He had reason. Very good reason.
Twelve was what he wanted. No more. No less.
Spree Page 10
